Linda M. James is a writer of novels, non-fiction books, screenplays, short stories and poems. Before becoming a writer, she was a model, a singer and an English lecturer. She lives in Kent, UK.
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A Fatal Facade

A Crime Thriller

By Linda M. James

John Hunt Publishing Ltd.

Copyright © 2013 Linda M. James
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-78279-102-7

CHAPTER 1

7th December 2012

Paolo Cellini's slim, naked body lay on his marbled-bathroomfloor covered only with a small, white towel. All the serenity andbeauty of Montgomery's Tancred was revealed in his face, butJack Bradley knew he wasn't serene. He'd seen too many deadbodies to be deceived by the illusion of serenity. This man wasyoung. He shouldn't have died. Jack moved carefully over to thelarge free-standing bath in a corner, took off one of his glovesand dipped his fingers into the red-stained bathwater and tastedit. A hint of red wine. Paolo Cellini liked decadence; there weretwo empty wine bottles and glasses on a marble table near thebath. Obviously he'd been bathing with someone before he died.Jack put his glove back on and opened Paolo's bathroom cabinetand was confronted with a wealth of toiletries: Bvlgari, RalphLauren, Nino Cerruti, Contradiction, Pacoxs ... it went on. Abottle of Metoprolol and the usual vitamin supplements thatpeople seemed to be obsessed with these days stood on one sideof the cabinet. He'd have to ask Matthew Stanford what theMetoprolol was for; then realized he couldn't. He shouldn't evenbe in this room.

From outside the bathroom door, Jack heard the grating tonesof Alan Saunders, his ex-colleague. Within two strides hereached the door. That's when he spotted the cream silk panties,half hidden behind a radiator. He picked them up and two whitetablets rolled over the marbled floor. Jack automatically put themin his pocket, his attention focused on the silk panties – they wereexquisitely embroidered; not that he was an expert onembroidery or panties. This was the first time he'd ever fingeredones as expensive as these. The panties disappeared into hispocket as the door opened. Alan Saunders stood there with theusual lopsided smirk on his face; a smirk which had always madeJack want to punch him in the face. So far, he'd resisted the urge.

'Jack – what the hell are you doing in here? You haven'ttouched anything, have you?'

'Of course not,' Jack answered curtly. He'd been this man'sboss for ten years and now he was telling him not to touchanything!

Alan smiled and Jack knew what he was thinking. Jack Bradleyisn't my superior any more. He stared at Jack's uniform. 'What forceis that, then? Don't recognize it.'

Alan's derisory tone made Jack's stomach contract. If Alan wasa plant, he'd be ivy, Jack thought. Strangling everyone withambitious tenacity.

'I'm working for someone in the apartment block. The deadman's neighbor.' Jack was surprised that he managed to keep histone so flat.

'Did you find the body?'

'No, the maid did. She's with my employer next door, havingthe British answer to trauma.'

Alan raised his eyebrows quizzically.

'Tea,' Jack said.

There was a small uneasy silence as the two men stared ateach other with years of mutual dislike.

'I see,' Alan said, not seeing anything at all.

'I'll get out of your way.' Jack moved swiftly out of thebathroom as two forensic experts filed into the room; they smiledat him briefly as he passed them; he knew them both.

'How's Lucy?'

The unexpectedness of the question hit Jack hard. He turnedslowly to face Alan before saying. 'If you ever came to see her,you'd find out.' Jack closed the door and took several deepbreaths as he walked into the dead man's lounge. In the wintersunlight it looked like a treasure trove of Medieval andRenaissance Art. A large triptych covered one wall: three panelsdepicted heaven, hell and purgatory. Jack had a passion for art;he became mesmerized by the consuming flames of hell.Suddenly he was back in that house the night of the siege and thewoman's screams were piercing his brain as she burnt in front ofhim.

A hand on his shoulder made him jump. 'Hallo, sir – wherewere you?'

Jack turned and saw Jamila Soyinka smiling at him.

'Not a place you want to be and ... it's not "sir" anymore ... remember?'

Jamila flushed with embarrassment. She studied the painting.'Who'd want that in their lounge?' Her nose wrinkled as she sawthe devil roasting a foot.

'A Catholic,' Jack answered curtly, turning away from her.

There was a small awkward silence. Jamila glanced aroundthe room in amazement; priceless art works, accumulated overfive years, covered every surface.

'This place is more like an art gallery than a home. Wouldn'tlike to live here myself.'

'You couldn't afford it on your salary.' Jack turned to smile ather. They had always worked well together at the Met. 'Theowner was an art dealer. A very successful one, according to mynew employer ... she's got the apartment next door. His maidCarla discovered the body.'

'What do you think, Jack?'

'About what?'

'Come on, you've always had a theory.'

Jack was just about to answer when Alan came out of thebathroom talking to Matthew Stanford, the police doctor.

'Time of death?' Alan asked.

'You know I can't be certain,' Matthew answered.

'Well, give me an expert guess,' Alan persisted.

Matthew hesitated before saying, 'Roughly between 2 and 4am.'

Alan's face tightened as he saw Jack in the corner of the room.'You still here? Obviously can't keep you away from death.'

The silence in the room was unnerving as everyone stared atJack.

'I'm just leaving.'

'Jack ... good to see you.' Matthew rushed over to shake Jack'shand warmly. 'I'm almost certain the dead man had a heartattack. He was taking Metoprolol, a beta blocker used to controlthe rhythm of the heart.' He was speaking to Jack, not Alan.

'If you remember, Matt – Jack's not one of us anymore.' Alan'sface flushed with anger.

Another tense silence before Jack started towards the door.

'A heart attack?' Jamila queried. 'But the guy was only 30,wasn't he?'

Jack closed the door on Matthew's answer. He was walkingdown the corridor to his new employer's apartment when Jamilaran after him.

'What do you think, Jack?'

'I don't any more. You heard Alan.'

Jamila blocked his path. 'Come on – tell me what you think!'

'I think Paolo Cellini was murdered.'

Jamila stared at him in surprise. 'But Matthew found hearttablets in the bathroom cabinet. The guy had a heart condition.'

'You asked what I thought. I've told you.'

He could hear Mrs. Montgomery's voice in the distancetalking to Cellini's Italian maid, trying to comfort her; she wascrying. Her screams on finding Paolo's body had brought Jackrunning to his apartment.

'I've got to go.'

Jack started to move away from Jamila when she said, 'Whydid you leave the force? Nobody wanted you to.'

'Go back to Alan, Jamila. He needs you.'

'No, he doesn't. You know he likes to take the credit for everything.'

'Not my problem anymore. I've got a new life now.'

'You call being a chauffeur a new life for one of the best DCIsin the Met!' Jamila called after him.

Jack carried on walking towards Mrs. Montgomery'sapartment wishing he hadn't heard the anger in her voice.

CHAPTER 2

7th December 2012

Federico Batas pulled his short, thick overcoat closer around him.A fierce December wind scoured his face as he battled towardsCellini's Chelsea art gallery. He'd had appalling dreams lastnight, reliving the accident over and over, but he still had towork. He was carrying the week's takings from the Blue Notesnightclub in a large black briefcase. Rico had repeatedly toldCellini what he thought about carrying such a large amount ofmoney through the streets of London, but the bastard had simplysaid, 'No one is going to mug you, Rico, are they? Not with yourface.' Rico had always wanted to ask him what he meant, but henever had. He was too afraid of the answer. He turned into LowerSloane Street and saw a large sign in the gallery window. GalleryClosed Until Further Notice. Rico frowned. The gallery managerhad said nothing about any closure last week. Stamping his feetagainst the cold, he waited for the manager, Edmondo Pourani, toopen the door. Edmondo's usual serious expression had beenreplaced by an even more somber one. It made Rico nervous. Hewalked past him into the gallery full of expensive and exquisiteart acquisitions Cellini had bought, mainly from Italy.

'What's the matter? Why's the gallery closed?' Rico asked him.

Edmondo stared at him in surprise. 'You haven't heard? Mr.Cellini died early this morning. A heart attack at thirty! It'sunbelievable.' He patted his forehead with an immaculatelylaundered handkerchief while Rico stared at him in confusion.

'What do you mean – dead? He can't be dead. He was in theclub last night.'

'The police rang me at 6 a.m. He had a heart attack a fewhours before. I've only just returned from the mortuary. I had toidentify his body. They couldn't find a trace of any family. It wassimply ...' His voice trailed off as he patted his forehead with hishandkerchief again. 'It's been a terrible shock.'

Rico tried to think quickly, but nothing came.

'You'd better come through, Rico.'

Rico followed Edmondo's immaculate figure into the storeroomat the back of the gallery. 'What shall we do with thetakings?'

He frowned at Rico. 'We'll deposit them in the safe asusual ... it's still Mr. Cellini's money whether he's alive or dead.'

'Of course,' Rico added hastily, looking around the storeroomfor the crate. It's not here! Rico had to hang onto a nearby tablefor support. Jesus Christ – they'll crucify me.

Edmondo was depositing the money in the safe, so missed thepanic on Rico's face.

'So ... where's the shipment Mr. Cellini was expecting fromItaly, Mr. Pourani?'

Edmondo locked the safe and turned in surprise to Rico. 'It'svery strange, but he asked for it to be taken straight to hisapartment. The police have been there all night, most probablydesecrating some of the most priceless works of art in the world.One of them came to the gallery just before you arrived – he musthave had all of four brain cells. The dear Lord only knows whatthe rest are like. If only Mr. Cellini had told me what he wasshipping ... I can't understand it.'

Rico could feel the room swaying. He had to sit down.

Even after an hour's walking, he still couldn't think what todo. How could he get access to Cellini's apartment? What if he'dleft the crate lying around? Rico was a frozen wreck by the timehe walked into the club, but all thought of the crate disappearedfrom his mind when he saw Bianca sitting at the bar, drinkingheavily. It was the middle of the afternoon.

'I was with him last night, Rico. How can he be dead?' Sheknocked back a glass of whisky without looking at him. Ricocorked the bottle and put it under the bar.

'That's not going to help, Bi.'

'It is. Don't want to feel anything ... why'd he rush off like that?We were going to get married next year.' Her convulsive cryinghad made her mascara black-lead her eyes.

'Married!' Rico couldn't disguise his disbelief.

Bianca glared at him. 'We were! We just didn't want anyone toknow – not yet.'

'Oh, come on, Bi – you know what he was like.'

'What's that mean?'

'You know what he was like with women.'

Bianca slid off the bar-stool and shouted into Rico's face.'What do you mean? Was he seeing someone else?' She shookRico so hard his head hurt. 'Who was she, Rico? Tell me, youbastard or I'll kick your fucking nuts in! Tell me!' She started tohit him.

'Bi – he wasn't worth this.' He held her arms tight until, at last,she suddenly slumped against him, moaning. 'Shhhhhh,' he saidgently, stroking her hair and breathing in the chamomileshampoo she always used. Gradually, she stopped shaking.'Come on ... I'm taking you home.'

She leaned away from him – her panda eyes trying to focusthrough the alcoholic haze. 'I'm never going to see him again,Rico ... how am I going to live with that?'

He stopped her collapsing onto the floor. At that moment,Rico wanted Cellini to be alive again; just so he could kill him – veryslowly.

CHAPTER 3

7th December 2012

Jack stared at the man in his bathroom mirror, amazed at hisreflection. A tired, forty-eight-year-old stranger stared back athim with a face so crumpled it looked as if people had beendrying their hands on it. How had it happened? He used to jogevery morning before work; he'd start again; he had to keep fitfor Lucy. He swallowed some sleeping tablets quickly and had apee. Worry, that's what's aged me. Why should I care about the deathof one more man? What does it matter if Paolo Cellini was murdered ornot? So why can't I stop thinking about a naked body lying on themarble floor, covered by a small white towel? He snapped the lightoff and stumbled out of the room, exhausted. But the questionkept circling his mind as he walked up the corridor towards hisson's bedroom: who covers himself with a small white towel when he'shaving a heart attack?

He glanced into Tom's room that was covered with postersfrom Batman films. His duvet was half off the bed. Jack enteredthe dimly lit room. Even though Tom was nearly 13 he stillwanted a night light on to keep the demons away. If only a lightcould do that, Jack thought, covering his son's vulnerable bodywith his Batman duvet. Tom looked much younger than twelve.Not much older than in the photos by his bed. Jack picked up hisfavourite picture of Lucy and Tom on holiday in Snowdonia threeyears ago. They were climbing Cader Idris. It was a hard climb,but Lucy was determined to get to the top before either of them.Her face was turned towards the camera, smiling. Jack could seethe determination of a fighter in her face. Of course, that wasbefore her illness. His hand trembled as he placed the photocarefully back on Tom's cupboard and smiled at his son. Helooked so peaceful sleeping; if only he could look like that whenhe was awake. Jack closed Tom's door quietly and crept into theirbedroom. Lucy was propped up with four pillows, obviouslyfinding it difficult to breathe, but at least she was sleeping. Jackclimbed into bed and lay there listening to her heavy breathing.They'd had a night-light in their bedroom too, since Lucy'sillness; in case something happened. They often spoke ineuphemisms now; it helped them all to cope. The ominousoxygen cylinder waited on Lucy's side of the bed. Would he havethe courage not to use it when the time came? Jack thought,before the sleeping tablets took effect.

He woke the next morning to find the bed empty and momentarilypanicked. Then he remembered Irina, Lucy's full-timecarer. Throwing his woolen dressing gown over his pyjamas, hepadded into the kitchen to have breakfast with Lucy and Tom.Irina was feeding Lucy who sat passively in her wheelchair. Jackbent and kissed her before sitting down opposite Tom. He wasdoing some forgotten homework as usual, but Jack had stoppedtelling him off. There were more important things to worry aboutthan forgotten homework, he thought. God, it's taken me years towork that out.

Jack smiled at Lucy and had his usual small shock. Each dayher face seemed a little more deflated, like a balloon with limitedair. Muscular dystrophy had almost paralyzed her completelynow, except for her fingers, her eyes and her brain which was stillagile. Jack didn't know whether the latter was a blessing or not.Her wheelchair had a voice stimulator attached to it, but shehated the disembodied sound, so she typed messages via a smalllaptop attached to her wheelchair. She started typing, thenlooked up at Jack. He glanced at her message tried to stay awakelast night

'Sorry, Luc. I didn't get in until late. I had to drive Mrs.Montgomery home from the theater. She's a theater fanatic.'

lucky she can go Lucy typed.

Jack cursed himself for his insensitivity. Lucy used to lovegoing to the theater before she was ill. 'Better get dressed or I'llbe late for work.'

Tom made a dismissive sound under his breath as Jack got upand walked out. It had taken him a few weeks to get over theembarrassment of the uniform; each day it got a little easier. Hestudied himself in the mirror. He actually looked smarter thanwhen he was working at the Met. He steeled himself and wentback into the kitchen to kiss Lucy goodbye.

He stopped at the door, trying to make a joke. 'What d'youthink of the uniform, then, folks?'
(Continues...)Excerpted from A Fatal Facade by Linda M. James. Copyright © 2013 Linda M. James. Excerpted by permission of John Hunt Publishing Ltd..
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